


Solitary Descriptions

by CaptainErica



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, mostly musings, nothing super serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 09:04:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7751545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainErica/pseuds/CaptainErica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How would you describe....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

If Gimli were asked to describe elves, he would have to ask you to clarify, because for him there were three types of elves and which did you want him to describe, exactly? The three types were as follows: The Lady of Light who was also known as Galadriel, Legolas Greenleaf, and...well….all the rest of them.

 

He knew there were nuances and culture differences, had learned all about them from his tutors as a child and from Legolas and Aragorn now that he was well grown; but for him there were three and he wouldn’t make any other distinctions. (Part of that was to annoy Legolas, who would pale rather exceptionally when singled out as his own kind of elf). But now, you have been bid to choose a kind of elf, and we all know that you were really hoping for a description of Legolas…

 

The Lady can wait, for she is magnificent as the blinding sun reflected off of gently rolling waves and mesmerizing as anything one could imagine. She was also not the current object of Gimli’s gaze, as the only elf around was Legolas.

 

They were in the halls of Edoras now, biding their time in celebration and rest before they needed to move on to Gondor and the next battle. Gimli and Legolas were sharing a room with the two hobbits (recently rescued from the Ents and Isengard), Gandalf, and Aragorn. There was not much space in the open halls of the slowly shrinking kingdom. Their thoughts were on grassy plains and fields for their horses, and the halls of the King were just that: halls. But Edoras was strongly built and while it was no Imladris or Erebor with rooms to spare, it was full of good company and a good time.

 

The first night back, after their trip to Isengard and the battle at Helm's’ Deep, Gimli had endeavored to see just how drunk the elf-prince could get. Unfortunately the experiment had to be terminated as Gimli found himself being half-carried down the hall to their room by the much less drunk elf.

 

“I see that you have deigned to return to us, oh Master Dwarf!” Legolas chuckled as Gimli’s feet began to take surer steps. 

 

“I see that you have not lost your wit.” He grumbled in response, noting that his arm was wrapped snugly around Legolas’ ever-surprisingly slim waist.

 

“Nay, nor will I ever, though my life was at times in jeopardy by the grace of your enthusiasm.” The elf sends a look down at the dwarf from the corner of his eye.

 

It was lucky, Gimli would tell anyone that would listen if he were ever to be asked, that his great red beard obscured the majority of his cheeks and the flush of alcohol and high spirits obscured the rest from the possibility of an embarrassed flush being seen. Of course, Legolas knew Gimli well enough by now to know that the dwarf beside him was less than thrilled by his potential over-exuberance.

 

“You exaggerate greatly, elf, and I do not appreciate it.” He says, his voice a low and scratchy rumble.

 

“There is very little for me to exaggerate about! But come, my dear friend, let us get off to our room and join our companions in rest!”

 

Legolas, Gimli would tell you were you to ask, was quick to move from wit to deep sincerity. You could get whiplash from trying to keep up. It was bad enough that those of a sensible height had to crane their necks to look up at him all the time, but then he’d go from joking to heartbreakingly earnest and back so quickly that you barely had time to catch up.

 

The room was tight with all of them in there, and they had to step around people to get to the corner where their packs lay waiting for them. The elf muttered something, probably words of rest and soothing, before lying back against his pack to stare open-eyed at the ceiling. 

 

Gimli hated this the most about the elf. There were few things now that he could truly say he hated about Legolas, so many months into their journey together, but this was a big one. Silent as death with barely even an inhale or exhale evident from his still chest, Legolas lay with his eyes wide open but unseeing. They were a blue like the sky normally, but clouded over in ‘sleep’ they were a dull gray that tore at Gimli’s mind in ways he couldn’t explain. 

 

It was those eyes that haunted Gimli at night sometimes. He would wake up in a cold sweat, his breathing coming fast and his right hand clenching and unclenching at his side as though wishing it were holding something. Legolas with eyes a stormy grey, was a Legolas with no life or laughter in him, and it was what kept him awake some nights. That an elf like Legolas could perish was something that he refused to acknowledge in his waking life, which would probably be why his mind acknowledged it in his sleep.

 

In a quiet moment the next evening, they sat together on the high wall just off to the side and hidden from sight by the flapping banners. 

 

If he were to describe Legolas, outside of all excuses and side-stepping of the question, he would start with the elf’s hair. It was long and golden in color, and Gimli forever fought the urge to run his hand through it in direct sunlight. It was glossy and straight and only rarely did it seem to become tangled or messy, no matter how hard they fought or fast they ran. The two tight braids that Legolas wore starting at his temples were something Gimli had always wanted to ask about, but hair being as significant in Dwarvish culture as it was made it hard for him to feel comfortable asking.

 

If Gimli had been younger, and you had asked him to describe Legolas, or any elf, he would have told you how stretched out and thin they looked; not a scrap of beard or obvious muscle anywhere on their small bodies. But now, having known men and elves and hobbits along with his fellow dwarves, Gimli could say with certainty that what Legolas was was tall. Nothing more, nothing less. He was not the tallest of elves, and he most certainly could not be considered the shortest (though Gimli hadn’t really measured many elves against Legolas, so he very well  _ could _ be the shortest elf), but he definitely wasn’t  _ stretched out _ . He was proportionate, and well-built. He was strong beyond all that his light form would lead you to believe. 

 

He was also lithe and athletic and rarely, if ever, seemed to tire. He could twist and spin and curl around things in ways that Gimli’s stout body could never even begin to manage. It was both thoroughly unfair and entirely outside his own understanding. Legolas was, most of the time, the definition of grace. He walked quickly and silently without disrupting anything in his path. He moved with a fluid grace that would catch Gimli off-guard when he noticed and force him to stare in open admiration (something he tried hard not to do). 

 

“What ails you, mellon nin?” Legolas asks, and it sounds like he’s calling it to him from further away. Gimli blinks, and then settles himself back against the wall they were leaning on. He’d been staring, half at Legolas and half out away from them. He would do well to keep his mind to himself, and not think about how he would describe the elf to others.

 

“Thoughts,” He grunts after a while, and catches the beginning of a laugh in Legolas’ eyes before he continues. “Running rampant through my mind are thoughts of our next steps, even as Gandalf dashes off with young Pippin, my mind turns further afield.”

 

It was a lie. A lie that he could taste in the back of his throat and that sounded plausible enough that Legolas would probably never notice. 

 

“Would that we were all still together,” Legolas starts, his eyes clouding slightly in sympathy and feeling. “But our paths diverged here, and I fear we will diverge from others before we reach the white city.”

 

Gimli hated it when Legolas got all misty and vague like that. He couldn’t predict when it would happen, even though he’d become much better at predicting some of Legolas’ other fey moods. But the minds and hearts of the immortal were hard to fathom when one was far fewer in years than them, and never likely to catch up.

 

They settled into silence again, with the only sound being the snap of the banners as the wind whipped through them. 

  
As it was, if Gimli were to describe Legolas (without ever letting the daft, tall lad know), he would say but one thing, and not let his thoughts get all caught up in  _ poetry _ and description. Legolas was perfect. Legolas was perfect and that was the best description that Gimli could come up with for the elf that didn’t include cursing or excess embarrassment.


	2. Chapter 2

If Legolas were asked to describe dwarves he would cock his head to the side and try to discern what it was you were really looking for from him.  _ Gimli, then. Describe Gimli! _ You’d say eventually, and he would nod as though he had both been expecting that and as if he were deep in thought.

 

He had years upon years of experience with dwarves. Most of that experience was tarnished by the biases and hard feelings of his father and the general disinterest of many of his kin to interact with the race.

 

He’d heard stories about great friendships between dwarf and elf that ended in sorrow, or madness, or grief. He’d heard a great many things that didn’t put dwarves in a warm light. But over the past few months he had learned that while there was truth and hurt in a lot of the stories he’d heard and the feelings he’d learned to associate with dwarves; there was also a lot of lies.

 

Gimli, all bushy red hair and boisterous laughter, was kind and loyal. He was short and thick, well-muscled and strong. Gimli had more hair than Legolas would even know what to do with, were he to have the same amount, and it was all gloriously textured and so,  _ so red _ . The color was vibrant like the dwarf himself, and his hair seemed to move and bristle along with all of his moods.

 

Elves, Gandalf had told the group at some point (he had tried hard not to pay attention), loved fine hair. Legolas would have to agree with Gandalf on this, as hair was most certainly a point of pride for elves. If anyone in their fellowship had fine hair, and Legolas is looking back now on the full nine of them with the eyes of someone many months wiser (and many months less prejudiced), it would have to be Gimli. The hobbits were a close step behind, in his eyes, but Gimli’s hair far surpassed any that he had ever seen.

 

Though truth be told he  _ did _ remember meeting Gloin, Gimli’s own father, whose hair was as red as his boisterous son’s back when they had met first. But Legolas would still have to choose Gimli’s as the fairer hair. 

 

They were riding across the great plains of Rohan toward the white city of Gondor, and Gimli was seated behind Legolas astride the trusty Arod. This was the best time for thinking about the dwarf, as there was no chance that he would catch him staring. Of course, with Gimli behind him, Legolas had no chance of looking at the dwarf at all, so it was only from memory and the light weight of Gimli’s warm hands on his waist that Legolas was thinking of him.

 

“When do we break for camp, laddie, I cannae wait to get off this infernal beast.” Gimli grumbles. 

 

Legolas starts softly, covering it with a light chuckle: sometimes he could feel Gimli’s voice straight to his bones and it jarred him deep in his core. “I am privy to no more information than you, Master Dwarf.” He says amicably, and Gimli lets out a scoffing laughing. 

 

“Aye, but your ears are much larger than mine and can hear farther.” He replies, and Legolas laughs, his eyes lighting up in mirth.

 

“Shall I tell you all that I can hear? Should I bend my ear to the winds to listen in on every conversation?”

 

“‘Twould make this ride more interesting, no doubt.” Gimli quips back, and Legolas lets out a peal of light laughter.

 

“I imagine that we will be stopping within the next few hours. Camp will need to be made, and light enough to do it in will be needed.” Gimli hums in agreement, and settles into talking with those nearby.

 

One of the things that Legolas liked the most about Gimli, was how amicable he was. Small children and adults alike came to find themselves enjoying his company. He could hold a conversation with most everybody, and a smoother talker Legolas had never met. He wasn’t always smooth, though, and the thought brings a smile to the elf’s lips. Gimli was just as likely to splutter or grumble as he was to flatter you; not that Legolas himself had ever truly found himself on the full receiving end of Gimli’s flattery.

  
No, if Legolas were asked to describe Gimli for you, he would really only be able to tell you that the dwarf was a stalwart friend. Gimli was bright, clear hope when everything felt hopeless. He was joyous laughter and a personality that matched his hair. Gimli was everything that Legolas had never realized he needed.


End file.
